As you all know, I'm pretty much obsessed with Skyrim. In two of my stories, Daniel and Arlen and Ragnar the Red, I have the Dragonborn, Arlen. Here's his story.
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Arlen sprinted through the trees, heading back toward the river he had passed over just over an hour earlier. The trolls crashed through the branches behind him, attracting attention for leagues around. Arlen continued to run through the trees, noticing a slight incline. He was unsure how long the incline was, but he knew it was a bluff.
Arlen had passed over this river only an hour earlier, looking to travel east into Morrowind. He had sold much of his stock in Windhelm, and intended to empty his cart to the Dark Elves. After he had crossed a river, he had been ambushed by unnaturally fast trolls. He had abandoned his cart, snatched a particularly large coin purse, and ran.
The bluff ended without warning. Time seemed to slow, and Arlen realized he was falling only two meters away from a small wooden bridge. He cursed his luck, clutched his coin purse, and spread his arms and legs. Death reached from the deep, fast-moving curve in the river, and Arlen had no choice but to fall to Him.
There was a splash of ice-cold water, and Arlen bobbed to the surface of the river. He was swept along at high speeds, until the river shallowed out and he slowed. As a merchant, he had to know where he was. This was Darkwater Crossing. He climbed out of the river, realizing for the first time that he hadn't died, and looked back and forth. There was a mill dipped into the water at the crossing, used most likely for wood or grain. The road led either way, past the mill, and Arlen set off further into Skyrim. He didn't have any supplies for travel, and would be hard-pressed reaching Windhelm, let alone Morrowind or his cart before brigands found it.
Arlen looked to his coin purse, and found that it had been torn in the river. There was a mere three coins in it. Arlen cursed again, and continued down the road. He stepped on something sharp, and turned to recover a boot he'd been unaware of losing. It bobbed in Darkwater Crossing, slowly drifting toward the waterwheel. Arlen jogged/hopped back to the water, catching the boot only a meter away from the wheel. As he attempted to put on the boot, a company of Stormcloaks marched past. They were all dressed in scale mail and blue cuirasses, with fur boots and gauntlets. At their head was Ulfric Stormcloak, dressed in armor of longer scales. Over this was a gray pelt. He had dirty blonde hair and a beard. He looked for all the world like a noble, a hero, a king. Arlen stood, began to walk behind the men. Suddenly, Imperials in brown hardened leather armor swarmed from the trees, killing and knocking unconscious. Ulfric was knocked unconscious and dragged away, and Arlen began to back up. Men were killed left and right, until only five remained. They formed a tight circle, but a man on a dark horse galloped into them. They scattered, and the man was thrown from the horse. The Imperials surged forward, hitting men over the head, dragging them away toward Ulfric. Arlen turned to run, and a rock scratched the side of his face. He tried to keep running, regardless of the pain. There was a sharp crack, a pain in the back of his head, and his vision faded to black. He heard men grunting, felt himself being lifted, thrown into a wagon, his hands tied, and someone hit him again for good measure.
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Arlen felt a slight heat on his face, but it was nearly cancelled out by the cool breeze that blew by. He started to open his eyes, but the sun forced him to do so slowly. He had a splitting headache, and the light didn't help. Finally, he managed to observe his surroundings with minimal pain. He was on a wagon, being rolled down a mountain road behind a horse. There was an Imperial driving the carriage. A brown-haired Nord on horseback rode behind them. Another wagon was ahead, and in front of that was another man on horseback. That one Arlen recognized as General Tullius, the Military Governor of the Imperials. He ruled more than the Empress in the Blue Palace in Solitude. Pine trees, flowers and shrubs flanked the road, with steep icy cliffs beyond those.
"Hey, you. You're finally awake," a voice sounded near Arlen. He looked up, and found a blonde Stormcloak across from him in the carriage. To his right was Ulfric, and across from Ulfric was the man on horseback that had galloped through the stalemate at Darkwater Crossing. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked straight into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there." Arlen understood now.
"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy." The man did look like a thief. He had dark greasy hair, sideburns, and shifty eyes. "If they hadn't been looking for you, I'd have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." Hammerfell was the homeland of the dark-skinned Redguards, the most naturally talented warriors in Tamriel, and was the country across the south-western border of Skyrim. They had been captured in Eastmarch, which was the north-eastern hold. Hammerfell was a long way from Darkwater Crossing. "You there," the thief addressed Arlen, "you and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
"Actually," Arlen corrected, "I am a Stormcloak. Not actively, of course, but I am the provider of their supplies. The next time you say something against the source of my money, something bad will happen to you."
Arlen smiled. That shut him up.
/Hadvar\
Hadvar observed the short argument between the prisoners ahead of him. The first time the black-eyed man had spoken, everyone had gone quiet. That was either power or a silver tongue. Hadvar didn't like it either way. When the train reached Helgen, there was a bit of an exchange with Tullius and a sentry. They rode into town, turned a corner, and stopped near the chopping block. The prisoners were unloaded, and Hadvar dismounted. A man gave him a list of names, and he joined a female Captain in front of the second cart.
"Step toward the block when we call your name," the Captain called. "One at a time!" Hadvar waited for a comment to end, then began his list.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." The Jarl stepped forward, then turned and walked toward the block. Another comment, and Hadvar continued. "Ralof of Riverwood." The talkative one walked toward the block. "Lokir of Rorikstead." A man in rags stepped forward, yelled, and ran. Hadvar never listened during these. It would make him feel something, and he couldn't afford that. Finally, the Captain yelled to the small crowd of Stormcloaks.
"Anyone else feel like running?"
Hadvar looked up, and addressed the black-eyed man. "Wait, you there. Step forward." The man walked forward. He was dressed in rags as well, courtesy of the Imperials. He was a Nord, that was obvious. He had shoulder-length black hair with a braid. His eyes were black; pupils, irises, whites and all. He had a rough, trimmed beard and a nose that made Hadvar jealous. He was not scared, nor was he content. He looked tense, as though he were about to escape.
"Who are you?" Hadvar asked. It wasn't just to check the list, but because Hadvar genuinely wanted to know who could have such a powerful presence.
"Arlen."
The one-word response seemed to frustrate the Captain next to Hadvar.
"Any surname, Arlen?" She said the name as though it were and insult.
"If you want," Arlen said, turning to her with a bored gaze, "you can call me Arlen Shadowcloak. Although, it might be in your best interest to call me 'sir.'"
/Arlen\
Arlen had just plucked the surname from thin air. His real surname was Goldentongue, for how easily he could seemingly turn words into profit. He had then said the 'sir' bit, and hoped they wouldn't torture him before death. They didn't, but both blanched. He tried not to smile, but mentally thanked his intimidating black eyes. They sent him toward the block.
"Ulfric Stormcloak." Tullius approached the Jarl of Windhelm. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." Ulfric grunted through a gag, but Tullius didn't stop. "You started this war," he said, his voice rising, "plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!" A roar echoed through the mountains, accentuating the words.
"What was that?" Someone asked.
"It's nothing, carry on." Tullius walked away from Ulfric.
"Yes, General Tullius! Give them their last rites," the Imperial Captain said to a priestess.
She nodded. "As we commend your souls to Atherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved-"
"Oh for the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with." A red-haired man invoked the Nord God who had ascended from mortality to immortality.
"As you wish," the priestess said, annoyed. The Captain bent the man over the block.
"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you-" The black-clad headsman killed him.
"Next," the Captain said, "Arlen Shadowcloak!" The roar echoed again, louder this time.
"There it is again," the Imperial with the list said. "Did you hear that?"
"I said, next prisoner!"
"To the block, Arlen." Once again the one with the list. He moved toward the block. "Nice and easy." Arlen approached the block as well, ending up opposite the Imperial.
Arlen was about to die anyway, so he figured he would have the last word. He looked the Imperial in the eye, opened his mouth, and spoke. "When I get loose, you die first." The Captain pushed Arlen onto the block. Just before the headsman could kill him, though, a dragon landed on a nearby tower.
"Dragon!" someone shouted. There was an otherworldly echo, and Arlen was thrown from the block.
"Guards!" Tullius shouted. "Get the townspeople to safety!"
"Hey, Arlen!" the blonde man who had sat opposite Arlen in the cart shouted. "Get up! Come on! The Gods won't give us another chance!"
Arlen stood, but didn't follow the blonde man. He simply ran past into a tower and up a staircase three steps at a time. At the top of the first flight, there were two burnt corpses, a lot of rubble, and a hole in the wall. Outside, there was an inn with a hole in the roof. Arlen jumped through it, dropped to the ground, and ran out into a street. He sprinted across a wooden walkway, through a burning house, and out of Helgen through a gate. He continued down the path, broke his bonds with some effort, and hid under a half-fallen tree. There he waited. An Imperial soldier landed next to him, having been thrown all the way from town. Houses burned. Finally, the dragon flew away. Arlen looted the Imperial for armor and weapons, taking a dagger, a bow, and a quiver of arrows in addition to the light armor.
"From this moment forward," Arlen swore to himself, "I will be Arlen Shadowcloak. I will fight from this day until my last, and I will be the most powerful man in Tamriel!"
/Adrianne\
Adrianne Avenicci looked up as the stranger passed. She was unsure why, for she never looked up from hot steel over an anvil. This time, though, she was forced to. She realized it was night time, although Warmaiden's should have been closed at 8. The figure strolled through the street, hidden under shadow of hood, house, and cloud. He was dressed entirely in studded boiled leather, except for his hood. His hood was a simple leather piece that had been sewed into a hood shape and attached to the top of his cuirass. A steel dagger hung from his left hip, and a few orange-brown-fletched steel arrows peeked over his shoulder. In his left hand he held a recurve hunting bow, and in his right several brace of rabbits. Over his shoulder, balanced with great strength and much finesse, was a dead, hog-tied elk.
Adrianne stared with awe at the man, and her stomach sank into her boots when he approached.
When the man reached Adrianne, he spoke only one word. "Merchant."
It wasn't a question, nor a request. Not a command, not a statement. It was a single word that told Adrianne, 'tell me where I can sell this game, and nothing bad will happen.' At least, that's how she viewed it. She pointed with shaky finger at the Drunken Huntsman, a shop for all things hunting, including bows, arrows, meat, pelts, clothes, and horns.
"Elrindir will still be there, but it'll be locked. It doesn't open again until 8."
The stranger looked not at the position of the moon, any water clock, sun dial, nothing to tell the time. He simply said, sort of sarcastically, "It's already 9:41. He's nearly two hours late."
"I meant the morning," Adrianne muttered at the stranger's retreating back. When he reached the shop, he tried the handle. The door, as Adrianne said, was locked. So he gathered his strength and kicked it in. There was a yelp from the inside. Adrianne quickly dropped her project and ran toward her house.
/Elrindir\
Elrindir, the manager and owner of the Drunken Huntsman, looked up as the door was tried. He drew breath to yell, "closed," but the door suddenly exploded inward, scattering wood shards, twisting the hinges, and letting in moonlight. A strange figure walked in, and Elrindir never noticed the rabbits or the elk, only thought they were living appendages on the man. When he walked into the light, though, the man appeared normal enough. Just a very dark-looking hunter. Elrindir tried to tell him, "closed," again, but all that came out was a yelp. Only then did he realize that he was afraid of this man.
The man walked forward. "How much?" And he dropped the rabbits and elk onto a counter.
"Thirteen hundred septims!" Elrindir said with some effort. He did not want this man to think he was being cheated.
Suddenly, everything seemed to brighten. Elrindir's fear lessened, and he wondered what had caused it. Then he realized, the stranger had lifted his head and revealed his face. He seemed much less like a mysterious and frightening figure now, and more like a person. He had full black eyes, but that wasn't as rare in Skyrim as it was in the rest of Tamriel. He was a Nord, which reassured Elrindir even more.
"Really?" the suddenly more friendly stranger asked. "I was thinking more like eight hundred. Didn't think rabbit and elk were that valuable."
"Eight hundred's good..." Elrindir still didn't want to be killed by an underpaid man.
"Well then, let's get on with it." The stranger picked up a coin purse next to Elrindir's left hand and shook it. "Sounds like two and a half hundred. Tell you what, two more of those and we'll call it square." Elrindir agreed, gave him two more purses, and shuffled into a back room.
"Close the door as you-" The door thumped closed, then creaked back open a few centimeters. A coin purse came back through the hole where the handle used to be.
"That should cover the door," a voice called from the other side.
/Arlen\
Arlen Goldentongue, the merchant, thought to himself. 750 gold for just an elk and six rabbits! But Arlen Shadowcloak, the mysterious hooded adventurer, cut in.
That elf was a cheat! He cheated me out of five hundred gold coins!
Goldentongue and Shadowcloak argued for several minutes, and Arlen froze in the middle of the street.
I need to pay for the door.
Elrindir can pay for it!
There's no excuse for destruction.
I wasn't destroying it! The smith said 8, it was 9:42!
She meant the morning and I know it!
In the end, Arlen decided he would stick with his Goldentongue personality for this situation. He tossed one of the purses through the hole in the door and shouted. "That should cover the door!"
/Farnell\
"Night duty again..." Farnell grumbled to himself. He was a Whiterun city guard, and had received night patrol six times in a row. He donned his scale mail, yellow surcoat, fur boots and pointed full-face helmet. He picked up his shield. It hadn't been used much, and the yellow paint and brown stylized horse head were nearly flawless. He then picked up his short Imperial sword and opened the door.
He wished he hadn't.
Outside stood a strange figure, dressed entirely in brown leather. There was a bow in his left hand, a dagger on his waist, and a quiver of arrows on his back. The figure seemed to be looking directly at Farnell, and nobody else was around. Suddenly galvanized into action, Farnell realized he wasn't afraid of this figure and drew his sword. The figure, Farnell now realized, hadn't seen him in the doorway. He put away his bow and turned to walk down the street. Farnell couldn't have someone like that in Whiterun, so he set off in pursuit. About ten meters away, Farnell stopped. The figure had turned about, and had his dagger in his hand.
Farnell ran forward, and swung his sword. It missed, and a slash appeared across his thigh. The figure's dagger buried itself in Farnell's shield, and pushed him back a meter. The dagger came out of the shield, and Farnell barely deflected the next stroke. The next attack was from Farnell, but it was redirected into the ground. Farnell didn't even try this time. The dagger slid in between his ribs. In spite of the warm blood that poured down his side, all the city guard felt was cold.
/Arlen\
Arlen Goldentongue was appalled. Arlen Shadowcloak was satisfied. Arlen argued with himself over whether he still wanted to be Arlen Shadowcloak, a powerful man who could kill city guards, and he froze again. The two personalities clashed, and Arlen went over the pros and cons of each. In the end, he decided once again.
I am Arlen Shadowcloak.
Arlen sheathed his body dagger and moved toward the dead guard. Nobody was awake or out at this hour, but it would not do for the body to be seen in the morning. He dragged the body off the road into some shrubbery. He nearly hurled, but stopped himself just in time.
I am Arlen Shadowcloak.
It barely helped. He still felt like the innocent merchant Arlen Goldentongue. But he couldn't be. He needed to be the killer.
I am Arlen Shadowcloak.
Arlen reached into the guard's coin purse and emptied it into his. Although he had tried to be Shadowcloak before, that moment tipped the scales. Now, he didn't think it to reassure himself. He only stated a fact.
I am Arlen Shadowcloak.
Nothing could stand in his way now. Arlen Shadowcloak would speak to Jarl Balgruuf, as he figured he should do, and then he would destroy the dragon and its kin.